


Our Hearts Were Lonely Hunters

by Anthrobrat



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Homesickness, I don't even know if it's done I just couldn't write any more angst, I'm serious I am crying writing it, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, New Orleans, Not Beta Read, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anthrobrat/pseuds/Anthrobrat
Summary: Babe and Gene came to terms with their lives post-war in a city that provided a means and a place to escape.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe, Eugene Roe/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	Our Hearts Were Lonely Hunters

**Author's Note:**

> The inspirations for these scenes are quotes from "A Love Song for Bobby Long" (Shainee Gabel 2004)
> 
> (These characters are representations of the fictional HBO characters; I have the utmost respect for the real gentlemen of Easy Co and the 101st. I also have never been a soldier and thus do not know if these feelings are things they go through, so apologies if anything is off base)

_ New Orleans is a siren of a city. Place of fables and illusion…. A place to escape to, away from lives that no longer belonged to us.  _

When Gene came back from the war with Vera on his arm, he couldn’t bring himself to settle back in Bayou Chene. That was a place for a life that was no longer his. He knew his grand-mere wanted him to follow in her footsteps, if not as a traiteur than at least as a doctor -- someone who healed -- but he knew that life wasn’t his anymore. 

What had Renee said? She’d rather be a butcher? He had been shocked that she could so easily give up such a gift, but now that he was home, breathing in the dense air of the city and trying to place one foot in front of the other, he understood completely. He never wanted to touch a dying man ever again. Not after Grant, or Jackson, or Hoobler. He was done. He’d have to find a different way to get his hands dirty. 

So he found a job in construction, and a two bedroom apartment in the Marigny, and tried to move on. If he had nightmares about twenty year old kids bleeding out in dank, cold basements, well that was just his life. And if he had dreams that weren’t nightmares but left him just as sweaty and disoriented - dreams about redheads with cut palms and kind eyes - then that was just life too. He hadn’t acted on any of the urges that racked him after Bastogne, and even though he somehow still lamented that fact he was also thankful for it. Those sorts of memories would have only made the transition more difficult.

His life now was with his wife. Vera was a wonderful woman, and he loved her in whatever ways that he could. They would probably have children, start a family, and it would be nice. Then, maybe someday, they’d move back to Bayou Chene and raise their children in the same place he’d grown up. Not yet, though. He still needed time to readjust or something, to figure out what it all had meant if it had meant anything. 

Babe had spent the better part of the last six months after getting off the ship in December at a loss for what to do. He didn’t understand how people picked up where they had left off. Even with half a leg, Bill came home, looked Frannie up, and went on with his life. They had met up a few times and the man’s life seemed lovely all things considered. To Babe, however, this life that had seemed so easy three years ago was suddenly unknown to him. 

The previous winter he had woken from nightmares most frigid nights, achingly happy to not be in a foxhole. Other nights he would sit and drink and find himself missing Malarkey’s mystery stew, and Shifty’s laugh, and a pair of fathomless eyes to match pitch black hair. He didn’t miss war. He could never actually miss the particular hell that was war. But there were memories, scenes if you will, that always struck him and made him yearn for something that just didn’t exist anymore.

By spring, the walls felt like they were closing in on him, and he made his plan to run. Originally, he had considered going to New Jersey. It was close, and Winters and Nixon would probably take pity at least for a week, but something called him south. So he sent a letter to his Ma, took leave with his boss, and caught a train. 

_ A New Orleans summer drowns in thick, dank stillness. The house shrank with each passing day, straining uneasy walls closer. _

Babe arrived in New Orleans in the middle of June. He vaguely remembered Gene telling him very specifically never to come to Louisiana in the summer, but he couldn’t wait anymore. He’d been in town a week, and every morning he woke and rubbed his fingers over the piece of paper with an address and a phone number on it. 

The man was married, but surely he’d at least be happy to see a friend. Babe was counting on his hospitality. He just needed to see Gene one more time. He hadn’t prepared himself for their initial goodbyes, he needed another chance. Maybe then he’d be able to stop missing him so fucking much. 

Back in December, Gene had invited him to stay in England for the wedding, but it seemed in poor taste to not get back to his Ma and the rest of the family. Of course, the moment he’d stepped off the train platform he had wanted to leave. When they said “it’s not the place that changed, but you” they were talking about Babe Heffron. 

It was three more days of living out of his suitcase in that hotel on Decatur before he got the courage to reach out. He walked to the address listed. Could’ve caught a cab, or even a streetcar, but spending years walking miles upon miles had made him feel at home putting one foot in front of the other. 

When he finally arrived at the tiny house with blue shutters, he realized he had no idea what to say. He remembered Vera from Aldbourne, had gone for a drink with her and Gene before going home the year before. That had been depressing, but Babe had soldiered through. Spending time with Gene and his wife was better than not spending time with the man. 

So here he stood, in their cozy front garden with what smelled like basil growing next to the front steps. He knocked on the door and was greeted with a kind smile. Vera put a hand on his shoulder and welcomed him in. 

As he stepped into the house, a head of pitch black hair leaned out from a chair in the kitchen to see who was at the door. Upon recognizing who exactly was stood in the doorway, Gene jumped out of the chair and charged toward the door. Babe had hoped for a warm welcome, and he supposed he got it. Gene stopped short in front of him and extended a small smile and a hand to shake. He apologized curtly to Vera for knocking over the chair in his excitement, but Vera just laughed and asked Babe if he’d like to stay for dinner. 

They spoke a little of Babe’s plans, of which he had few other than getting out of Philly as quickly as possible. Gene mentioned a few openings with the construction company, if he was planning to stay, as well as a neighbor who might be able to find him a place to live for cheap. Babe had originally thought to only visit for a week or two, but considering he had no reason or ticket to return north, staying became the plan.

_ Autumn comes slowly in New Orleans. The grass remains a stubborn green, but the heat gives way to a gentle warmth. _

Babe found a job working in a brewery down by the levee. It became a solid day’s work not very unlike his work back home in Philly, except that he didn’t know every person on his shift from school or the neighborhood. Most of the others liked him but allowed him his distance. Some were vets like himself, and he felt like there should be some sort of kindred spirit there but instead they just made him miss his own platoon. The stories they told were so similar and yet so drastically different to his own. 

He had come to this place looking for something specific, some sort of experience that would make sense to him, that could bring him back. Maybe what he’d really been looking for was an escape. As a paratrooper, always surrounded, one could never retreat because the enemy was in the other direction. Back home, one could always find a place to run away to.

He spent most nights getting drunk at the bar on Magazine that his first cabby pointed him to, and then stumbling back to the carriage house he was renting. Only in New Orleans do people live in old fucking carriage houses. He was haunted by the idea that he needed to somehow make something more of this life -- for Jackson, and Julian -- but he couldn’t figure out how to go about it. So he drank and he went to Sunday dinners at Vera and Gene’s house, and he tried not to contemplate how much he wanted to touch his medic. 

Gene and Vera had also settled into a nice routine. Gene would go to work and come home to dinner on the table, which was nice. Vera was nice. She was a bit quiet, and had bouts of homesickness for her home across the ocean, but she was truly making the most of her time in Louisiana with him. Her accent became a curiosity among the neighbors, this woman from a far off land. 

Gene loved Vera for her ability to adapt to their new life together. She was incredibly understanding of his moods, his nightmares, and his distance. He loved her for it. He loved her for a lot of things. He loved her in unfathomable ways. His heart was hers. Except his heart also belonged to Bastogne and a certain redhead. But that was another dimension of his life, far away from the current one. Babe was from another dimension, one he was trying and failing to get over. 

Sundays became the best and worst parts of the week. Babe looked forward to it, and it was always nice to sit and drink a few beers and be around someone who understood without having to be told. Gene’s demons were different, but they were familiar. Gene felt the same way about the faraway look in Babe’s eyes. They could converse with facial expressions, which they both assumed pissed Vera off, because a wife shouldn’t be the third wheel at dinner. They just couldn’t ever seem to stop, and they certainly couldn’t voice those conversations. 

The dinners were as talkative as they could be, with Babe and Vera chatting jovially about the food and the marketplace and the barflies on Magazine St, among whom Babe did not count himself even though he was there six nights out of seven. Gene loved to listen to their stories, but only occasionally added his own. His taciturn nature had a home at the table between the two loud, loquacious people that meant so much to him.

After dinner the trio would head outside and fall into a tangible silence, wherein Babe and Gene would share looks and Vera would ignore them. It was the only time Babe ever felt comfortable, but God it almost made him wish for a foxhole. Like maybe if they could go out into the backyard and dig a hole the size of a grave and climb into it and sweat it out 6 feet under together that their minds would stop running and their skin might stop itching. But digging a grave in your backyard when you were supposed to be done with war was an act of absurdity. So they sat too close together on the front porch, legs stretched out in new and unfamiliar ways, waving to friendly faces as they walked by. Vera always chose instead to perch on the steps, where she could make her rounds with the neighbors while her two boys remained mute. 

_ Winter arrived before we realized the sunlit hours of summer had waned. So now the wine began to outlast the day and that was more than anyone could’ve asked for.  _

As the weather turned colder, Babe and Gene’s duo bled out from Sundays into the other days of the week. Mondays Gene would come to the bar on Magazine to meet Babe for a drink. Fridays they would wind their way through the French Quarter, meandering in and out of bars and listening to the jazz musicians. Saturdays they sometimes went fishing out on the bayou, but when it was too cold they would post up in front of the fire. The lack of orders and structure still sometimes got to them on days when there wasn’t much to do. 

Vera came along occasionally, but mostly she just stayed at home and tended to her own business. One time she asked Gene how long Babe planned to stay. The owlish look she got in response was an answer in and of itself. These boys of hers had no idea what they were doing. Maybe they just needed a little more time. 

She told Gene she could provide them with a little more time. She assured him that a little more time was all that he needed. She understood that the man she had met in 1944 had changed in irrevocable ways, but that he was still hers if they were willing to hold on. Gene closed his eyes so she wouldn’t see the doubt, and then wrapped his arms around her waist and wished that things could be different.

Fridays and sometimes Saturdays ended with Gene in Babe’s tiny carriage house. He hated that he didn’t want to go home. A man should want to go home, but he just didn’t know where home was anymore. Babe would make up the couch for him and throw two blankets over him to keep him warm. Sometimes it felt like he would never truly get used to being warm when it was cold outside. 

It was mid January the first time Gene woke up in Babe’s bed. They had been exceedingly drunk the night before, and Gene had walked Babe home and put him in his bed. When he turned to grab the blankets for the couch, Babe had reached out and grabbed his wrist. The look in his eyes was begging for something to take away his pain. Gene had no idea how -- as if somehow coming back had relieved him of his ability to heal -- but he felt a similar ache in his own heart. Sleeping curled around Babe was torture, but worked to calm their frayed nerves. 

_ Winter never truly feels at home in New Orleans. An unwelcomed visitor that shows up long enough to remind us of what we’re missing, then leaves us just in time to forget again. _

Spring in New Orleans was full of celebration and music. Gene, Babe, and Vera walked the Mardi Gras parade routes and tried to soak up the revelry and happiness that poured from the celebrations. New Orleans was loud enough that week to drown out the doubts and sadness that had taken hold through the winter. 

It was the first time Babe didn’t question whether his smile was forced. It didn’t feel like home, but it did feel like something he could hold on to. Vera looked beautiful in her green dress, and although he found himself wishing it was his waist that Gene slid an arm around, he couldn’t deny that seeing them happy helped. 

Mardi Gras gave way to a busy spring. Strawberries flooded the market and Vera made an extra pie every Sunday for Babe to take home. He was starting to get comfortable in this place that he had run off to, which probably meant that he should leave sooner rather than later. 

In April, Gene invited Babe to Bayou Chene for dinner at his family’s home. If they thought it weird for a war buddy to be following a man and his wife home for the holidays no one mentioned it. He was welcomed with open arms, and introduced to what seemed like every single woman in town. He wanted to ask Gene why they were in New Orleans when the people there were so welcoming, but then remembered the warm look on his own mother’s face upon his arrival the year prior. All the welcome in the world meant nothing when they were still broken, battered, and lost. 

Babe could see the sadness on Gene’s face throughout dinner. Could see that he felt out of place and that he maybe hated himself for it. When Gene looked up from across the room, Babe simply held up the pack of smokes he’d taken from his pocket and nodded to the door. As they sat on the porch smoking, Babe leaned in just far enough so their shoulders touched. Babe considered the point in the future when he would subconsciously lean to his left and Gene’s shoulder wouldn’t be there to catch him. Babe knew that the person Gene was supposed to prop up was in the house washing up, and he finally realized that his presence was pulling apart the one man he had sworn to never hurt. 

On a Monday in May, Babe’s manager approached him to ask about his plans for the future. He had been working there for ten months at that point, and the guys wanted to know whether they could count him in for the summer season. At the bar that night, he broke the news to Gene. It was time. 

Gene spent the night laying in Babe’s bed, with the redhead’s arms wrapped tightly around him. He thought a lot about this man who had been his home in another dimension, and how to move on from this era of indecision. The time for retreating had ended for both of them, and he felt somehow stronger now although no less heartbroken for all that had been lost. 

_ Time was never a friend to [him]. It would conspire against him… allow him to believe in a generous nature, then rob him blind every time. _

Babe’s train back home to Philly left at 8:15 am on a Tuesday in June. On Sunday, Babe had come for one last dinner with Eugene and Vera. It was a loving, if not melancholy affair, as the two of them knew Babe leaving meant he might never be back. That was just how life worked. Clean breaks and new futures. When Babe left after dinner, Gene promised they’d meet him at the station on Tuesday at 7:30 to say goodbye. He left with a loaf of Vera’s banana bread tucked under his arm. 

Monday night Babe was awoken by a knock on the door. The expression on Gene’s face was painstakingly familiar - that pinched unhappiness that descended in Bastogne and didn’t leave until they were pulled back to Mourmelon after Haguenau. It was the face he’d made the night Chuck got shot, and the face Babe had said goodbye to as he got on the troop ship leaving England. 

He stepped out of the way to let the man in, but instead of walking into the apartment, Gene merely stepped closer to Babe. As they breathed each other in, Gene slowly lifted a hand up to Babe’s face and stroked one unsteady finger down the line of his jaw. Neither had anything to say. There was nothing that could be said. They had reached the end of this line they’d been pulling on, alone together in this enigma of a city. 

When Babe would think back on it later, he would not be able to remember who moved first, but the kiss overtook them both. Babe slammed the door with his foot as he began to unbuckle Eugene’s belt. In all this time, they had had all this time, they were just now getting around to what they had ached for for almost three years. When Gene got the ties of Babe’s pajamas undone and his hand inside, Babe made a broken sound. That sound would haunt his dreams, Gene thought. It would echo in his head forever.

That sound had only been the first of many that night. Gene spent hours taking Babe apart again and again only to be repaid over and over. What had started out desperate turned into a slow burn of unspent affection. How unfair this life was, to keep them apart because of convention. They were soldiers in a great war and they had survived -- didn’t that already defy the status quo? So they would take this one moment that was theirs and cherish it. This was home, but home was an impossibility. 

As Gene sank into Babe for what would be the last time, he considered letting the words that he’d been holding back fall out of his mouth. By God, he loved this man more than he could comprehend, but he held the words back. It would be unfair to lay that burden on him as he left, and he knew he couldn’t stay. Then Babe pulled him into a kiss so searing that words didn’t matter anyway because he could feel it. Babe was breathing his own love for Gene into his lungs. 

Gene woke at sunrise with Babe curled safely around him, an arm around his waist and a leg tucked between his own. The sun streamed into the room. The bedroom had never been more than a twin bed and a chest of drawers, but it suddenly seemed emptier. The thought made him want to cry, but before the tears could drop, Babe was kissing him on the back of his neck. 

An hour later, Babe looked at the clock and realized that they needed to get up. They would go to pick up Vera and then head to the train for his trip back to Philly. His Ma had written saying she couldn’t wait until he was home. Home. He supposed Philly would, at some point, become home, but he knew he would miss this place that was his escape and this person who felt more like home than his own mother. It was, however, time to move on. 

As Gene and Vera watched Babe’s train pull away from the station on that Tuesday morning, almost a year after he had arrived, Vera turned to Gene, put an arm around his waist, and kissed his cheek. 

“Did you get what you needed, Darling?”

“I think so. Let’s go home.”

Ten years later, when an invitation to Babe’s wedding came in the mail to his and Vera’s home in Baton Rouge, Gene smiled as he read the news. Inside the card was a picture of Babe and a pretty woman. Babe was leaning slightly against her shoulder. He hoped the man had found his own home. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hate angst but this story wouldn't leave me alone and I don't even know if it's done but I can't read it or edit it anymore so here it is. Comments are love, but also feel free to let me know if there are scenes that need fleshing out because I would like this story to be good.


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